Stayin' Alive
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: D. I. Lestrade tells a story from a case that happened a few months after Sherlock's hiatus. Inspired by something I learned from a tumblr post.


There was a post on tumblr from a user named lipstaining (and if I could figure out links, I would link to the post) that I found more hilarious than I should have and this is the result.

* * *

Some months after Sherlock returned from his "death" after the Bart's incident and 'hiatus', as we call it now, I found myself chasing desperately after the guy. Sherlock was sprinting, faster than me with those stupidly long legs of his, and it was taking all of my endurance and training to keep up with him. John was away, I remember, although I don't recall why. I don't know, I suppose it could have been a vacation, or maybe it was work? Whatever, doesn't matter. Anyway, what's important is this: the Doctor wasn't with us that day. Which was a pity.

Oh, except - Wait, not for the reason you're thinking.

Hell, that doesn't make any sense, does it? Sod it, you probably think Sherlock got injured or something. How's that for setting up a story? Damn, okay. Look, let me backtrack.

Alright. So we were working on a case together, Sherlock and I. The facts are unimportant (besides, I can't really discuss them, confidentially speaking); suffice it to say, we were tracking down a criminal and got a lead on someone that might have information. We had gone to a bar and Sherlock had used his usual bit of clever questioning to get a name and location. We left the bar and were walking to the address when Sherlock suddenly stopped.

He does this on occasion. It's really, _really_ annoying.

I couldn't get him to talk for a couple of seconds and I think he only let me in on the big revelation so that I would stop pestering him. Or, you know. Yelling at him to "fill me in."

"The bouncer. Did you see him skulk out the back entrance?"

No, I hadn't.

"Sure, what about it?" I replied mildly.

"Him and the owner, the man we spoke to, they're brothers. Half-brothers, anyway, judging by the red hair."

I failed to see the connection, or even the bit about the hair, and he read it on my face.

"The bartender is involved in this whole matter, can't you see that? And by proxy his brother!" Again, I was clueless. He almost snarled in his angry excitement, "Come on, Lestrade, you wouldn't need the clues of the extra account book at his desk or the letter that was sitting out to notice the guy's demeanor practically screamed his guilt?"

I stuttered for a moment trying to get at what the point of all this was. I didn't get very far because Sherlock started sprinting down the street.

Three or four minutes later and we come to what I was describing earlier. Running. And it was a pity that the Doc wasn't there because he is really much better at keeping up with Sherlock. And, Sherlock tends to reveal more things to John than me. I had shouted at him to wait, or at least give me more information to go on, but he had just kept pounding along ahead of me.

I understood his haste when we finally got to the address. He ran through the door of the house and I would have given him grief about breaking and entering if I hadn't noticed that he didn't turn the knob to do it. The door had been left somewhat ajar.

While I'm ashamed to say it took me a minute, I _did _finally understand. If the barkeeper WAS in on the whole business, and he had just given us a lead, he had also made sure to dispatch someone to make sure the lead stayed silent – his "half-brother", the bouncer. Obviously, the owner hadn't expected for Sherlock to realize his connection with the criminal. Or, maybe he had just panicked and done the amateurish thing – destroy evidence, or those who can hold it against you. He wouldn't have given the wrong address, I suppose, because we would have just returned demanding why he had lied.

I don't know. Whatever was going through his mind, the owner pulled a very foolish and desperate move.

If Sherlock hadn't have realized the foul play, we wouldn't have gotten there in enough time. I'm sure now that the bouncer had been banking on having more time.

When I got inside, Sherlock was already crouched beside the unconscious informant. It was a nasty job; the bouncer had used a kitchen knife which was now lying in blood near the informant's right side. He had tried to make it look like suicide, but it had been done so badly that no investigating team would have ever believed that theory for long – especially with the door having been accidently left open. He had botched the thing up in his haste.

Well, nearly, anyway. If Sherlock and I had been delayed, he would have succeeded in murdering our only lead.

I was pulling out my mobile to call for an ambulance while Sherlock hastily bound a temporary bandage around the knife wound.

"Call for an ambulance, Lestrade!"

What the sodding hell did he think I was doing?

He was starting CPR when I called. I didn't know he was trained in CPR, but I guess it's not really a surprise. In his chosen profession, it would be an advisable skill to know. Besides, he lived with a doctor.

Actually, looking back, I don't know why I was so surprised. Of course he would know.

Except, when I looked at his face, I saw it was pale (well, more than usual, anyway). I figured out later that he had only performed CPR once before, and then for a (comparatively) minor emergency. As I watched him, I recognized the tight expression. I realized that he was ignoring the nerves that come from performing a procedure you have little experience in.

And that's when I heard it.

He was _humming_ to himself.

I stared in shock, eventually making out abstract words. Muttering, then. Melodically. "Sherlock, wha…?"

He didn't respond, instead focusing his concentration on the task at hand. I knelt down to apply pressure to the wound. The temporary bandage hadn't been very tight and blood was escaping. As I knelt there, I listened in stunned amusement. I finally grasped that he was singing.

Well, singing. More like grunting in a shifting monotone; after all, he was compressing some bloke's chest, not doing karaoke. But the tune and words were escaping here and there.

"… Everyboh… Shake'nanweh – Stayih - aluh… Stayih – Ali…"

He was frowning in concentration as sweat began to bead up around his forehead.

"Ah—ah—ah—ah—stayehali… stayin' aluh…"

Heaven help me, the scene became too much, and I started giggling. I remember seeing his face flush, and he sneered a bit around his words. But, good lad, he kept it up.

A few minutes later, the ambulance showed up and they took over caring for the man. Sherlock was trembling from adrenaline or nerves or exertion, maybe a mix of everything. He was breathless, but his efforts were rewarded by the informant pulling through half a day later. If it hadn't have been for Sherlock, the guy wouldn't have lived. Plus, we would have lost the information he'd had to offer.

So, even though we didn't have the doctor for that one medical emergency, everything fell in place. I asked Sherlock about the "Stayin' Alive" thing later, but it was John who gave me an answer one night over drinks. He reminded me about the incident at the poolside with Moriarty several years before and the criminal's choice in ringtone.

"Sherlock learned how to do CPR on his own through observation. While he had learned the positioning right, I found out that he didn't know the proper speed for compressions." He had shrugged, then. "Anything to do with Moriarty has been burned into his brain. I figured that, rather than teach him an abstract rhythm, I could tell him that "Stayin' Alive" has the proper BPM for CPR. I knew that he would never forget how that song went."

The explanation was concluded by the classic John Watson frown. He didn't like talking about Moriarty, and understandably so. I paid for the next round of drinks, and we changed the subject. Once Sherlock became more accustomed to performing CPR (which, unfortunately, he _did _gain more experience; it's only to be expected in his line of work), he no longer hummed the song to himself. He had only done it in this one instance because he was unaccustomed to the procedure.

Didn't stop this one instance from being bleeding hilarious.

… Right, that sounded better in my head. Now I sound like a jerk.

What I mean is, it was no good that we got in the situation in the first place; it was unfortunate that the guy got stabbed; and it was a bit of a vulnerable moment for Sherlock because he was performing a procedure he was inexperienced in, not to mention that he had to utilize an unpleasant memory in the process.

However, the guy lived without complications; the case got solved; _and,_ I got to see the great Sherlock Holmes sing-muttering the Bee Gees. Call me a terrible person, but I'd say it was an all-around success.

* * *

The post was this: "there are 2 songs that have 100 beats per minute which is the correct amount for cpr and they are "staying alive" and "another one bites the dust" and if u don't think that's the rawest shit you've ever heard you can unfollow me right now."


End file.
